


Recovery, Period

by lavvyan



Series: Code Red [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Christmas Presents, Episode Tag, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Nightmares, Recovery, Steve McGarrett Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: Nothing's off, everything's as it should be, but there's this niggling feeling in Danny's chest, right about where Steve cut into him to save his life, that there's something... he doesn't know. Not missing. Not exactly. Not wrong, either. It's just...something.Some infinitesimal difference. It's driving him nuts.But it's about Steve, so Danny's confident he'll figure it out.Episode tag to 8x10 because feels.





	Recovery, Period

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is set after episode 8x10, which for later readers and strangers to the fandom: Danny gets shot in the chest, Steve has to _cut into him_ to let out air and thereby relieve the pressure on Danny's heart, and subsequently spends the majority of that particular storyline 'surreptitiously' wiping his huge, wet eyes when he thinks no one is looking. There will never, _ever_ be enough episode tags to cover the sheer amount of feels this caused me. 
> 
> 2\. Lynn and Melissa who?
> 
> 3\. Many thanks to Kate for looking this over. Any mistakes resort from my fiddling, concrit welcome.
> 
> 4\. I hereby dedicate this story to the Watchies, thus fulfilling my sacred duty because guess what guys? I included The Thing! \o/

The first thing Danny does when he gets home is to open all the windows and let in some air that doesn't smell of hospital disinfectant. He closes his eyes as the breeze sweeps in and just lets himself breathe for a moment. The air smells of car exhaust and sunshine, green things and, faintly, salt. Familiar. Also, onions; Mrs. Armstrong next door must be making her pot roast again. Danny grimaces as he swallows a sudden flood of spittle. He opens his eyes to focus on the specks of dried rain on the window, the fine layer of dust on every surface, anything but that onion smell. He should probably eat something, but... yeah. He swallows again.

Maybe tomorrow. 

His phone buzzes and he fishes it out of his pocket, knows who it is before looking. 

_You get home okay?_

His team, bless them, are in a conference with some of the governor's aides; a monthly 'explain yourselves and your tourism-interrupting ways!' meeting initiated by Governor Mahoe that can go on for hours. Steve hates it. Danny thinks it's actually a good idea. One of the many, many things they don't agree on. Kamekona had offered to drive Danny home, but he's been in a helicopter with the man. He took a cab instead. 

_Yes, Mom,_ he texts back, painstakingly slow, knowing the words will make Steve scowl at his phone, relying on it. He loves the guy, but every now and then Steve needs some grounding. Danny is happy to provide the service. 

But god, speaking of Moms, he wants to go back to Jersey so badly right now. Wants to let his mother fuss over him and his father peer fondly over the top of his paper and his sisters punch him in the arm for scaring them. He wants comfort food and discussions of daffodils versus tulips in the garden come spring; wants to feel Jersey settle back into his bones where it belongs. 

But he can't. For so many reasons, he can't. 

He sighs. 

It's past 5 pm and he knows he should take another dose of painkillers, but here's another thing he can't do just yet, no matter how much his chest twinges and burns with every breath, every twist in the wrong direction. Instead, he takes a much-needed piss and ignores his too-pale face in the mirror as he washes his hands. Then he goes to fetch a pillow and blanket from the hallway closet. The pillow is on the top shelf, Danny stretches up thoughtlessly to pull it down, and wow, _bad_ idea. 

The noise he makes sounds like a wounded animal. Danny clutches the pillow in his hand and tries to breathe through the pain, but that's hard to do when breathing is the thing that hurts in the first place. Still, he's got this. Slow breaths, in and out, clutch the pillow, wait. Relax. Don't tense up, don't... ahhh, fuck. He gulps down air, doubled over, vision blurry as his eyes start to water. His fingers hurt where he's digging them into the pillow. 

"Jesus," he rasps, voice thin as he breathes, breathes, slow and easy, in and out, Jesus fucking Christ that _hurts,_ slow breaths, come on, this is nothing, he is fine. He wants to weep with relief as the pain slowly fades, becomes manageable, not quite background but not crippling, either. 

He's okay. He's fine. 

Danny straightens in slow motion, pulls the blanket from a lower shelf and totters back into the living room with all the speed and surety of a rheumatic nonagenerian. He drops his haul unceremoniously on one end of the couch, grabs his painkillers from where he left them on the table earlier, and makes his geriatric way into the kitchen. A glass of water, one pill, swallow, breathe. Out of the kitchen, down the hall to Grace's room, where he turns and pulls at the wicker chair until it drags behind him to his bedroom. He shoves it half-heartedly into position next to the door, gives his bed a longing look and then more or less shuffles back to his couch. Once there, he lowers himself carefully enough that he can feel each vertebra in his back creak and pop. He lets his head fall back and blinks up at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to stop. He's never felt so old. 

Between sarin gas, ebola and a bullet to the chest, his lungs are this close to waving the white flag. It's gonna take him weeks to get back to a level where he can run around chasing leads, suspects and his partner, not necessarily in that order. Months, maybe. The mere thought of running makes his breath hitch. 

He was going to call his ma before taking the painkiller, knows she's still up and waiting to hear from him. But unlike other people in his life, Danny can admit when he's had enough. So he sends her a text – _back home, call you tomorrow_ – and lets the phone drop to the cushion beside him. 

He's so tired. 

The sound of a key turning in the lock of his front door nudges him from an uneasy doze. He blinks muzzily at the ceiling, hears the footsteps, drags a hand down his face. The shadows in his living room are longer than before, but it's not entirely dark yet. 

His voice sounds like someone took a rusty grater to it as he says, "My sheets are full of dust." 

"You haven't been home in two weeks," Steve says, like Danny doesn't know that. Danny wants to roll his eyes, but they feel glued to their sockets and he doesn't have the heart. So he just huffs out a breath and ignores the way Steve hesitates in the doorway before crossing the living room and disappearing down the hall into Danny's bedroom. 

Danny stretches carefully, testing his range. His chest aches dully, a faraway pain that is so much better than the alternative, but the rest of his body is heavy, including his brain. He lets himself sink back into the couch. If he tries to get up now, he'll probably fall into the table. 

Steve returns a minute later, only to hesitate again.

"Did you eat anything?"

"At the hospital." Danny pulls a face. "I wasn't hungry."

"You hungry now?" Steve sounds so... He's careful, quiet, not at all the pushy bastard Danny needs him to be, and Danny... He can't deal with this right now.

"I just wanna go to bed," he says and holds out his left hand.

Steve bites his lip but then he steps forward, clasps Danny's hand and pulls him to his feet. Danny grunts as the pain flares up and Steve twitches, but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't let go, either. Danny closes his eyes, breathes, squeezes Steve's hand. Steve squeezes back. 

He still doesn't let go.

"Come on," he says, and tugs at Danny like he's not convinced that Danny could find his own bedroom right now. Danny's not convinced, either, or at least that's what he tells himself as he lets Steve guide him to the freshly-made bed. He's _not_ humoring Steve, because that way madness and explosions lie. 

Danny's already wearing sweats and a t-shirt, perfectly fine sleepwear, but he lets Steve pull the flip-flops off his feet and help him get comfortable. His head sinks into the pillow like a stone into the ocean, and if those are the images his brain comes up with he really needs to sleep. 

"Blanket's on the couch, babe," he mutters, eyes already closing. 

"Okay, buddy," Steve says, but Danny doesn't hear him move.

Instead, he feels fingers trail over the right side of his chest, pausing over the bandage where the bullet had slammed into him and again over the cut Steve made. He hums. Steve pulls away.

Danny sleeps.

~~~

He wakes up once, in the middle of the night, in desperate need of a piss. The ache is back again, not quite as bad but insistent, and he lets Steve help him to his feet and halfway down the hall before he can think to wonder what Steve was doing in his bedroom. And when he does, he just rolls his eyes at himself because it's not like he didn't put the wicker chair in there for that exact purpose. Steve has a habit of lurking in the doorway when he's worried. And it's not like Danny objects to Steve being in his space. 

Hell, if his goofy brain is to be believed, having Steve in his space has become the default. 

No, what Danny objects to is the way Steve will stand there, arms crossed and mouth a tight line, his whole posture screaming, 'I'm feeling things at you right now and don't know what to do with them.' What Danny objects to is Steve compartmentalizing because he still thinks he's a soldier and has to tough it out alone. 

What Danny objects to, in summary, is Steve in pain or unsure of himself. Steve unsure of himself is not the accepted nature of things, and Steve in pain is just... no. Nuh-uh. Not a chance.

Hence the unspoken permission, hell, invitation even, because Steve knows damn well that the chair belongs in Grace's room, not Danny's. 

Maybe they should talk about that, one of these days.

"You need another pill?" Steve asks when Danny has taken care of business. 

Danny shakes his head. "Just sleep."

Steve doesn't say anything, but his grip on Danny's arm tightens and he radiates silent disapproval all the way back to the bed. 

Hypocrite.

~~~

Steve's in the middle of making breakfast when Danny shuffles into the kitchen the next morning, beelining for the painkillers. He has the glass of water ready when Danny swallows his pill, puts a plate of scrambled eggs before him with raised eyebrows and smirks when Danny just sighs and takes the damn plate. 

"All right, thank you." He's still feeling queasy, but his stomach lining will thank him. 

"You're welcome," Steve says loftily. Then he pulls the plate right out of Danny's hand again and carries it and his own to the table, where he sits down. Danny wants to strangle him. 

But Steve has dark smudges under his eyes and the lines in his face are just a little too deep for Danny's comfort. Besides, with his new buzz cut, Steve's eyes look huge and vulnerable, and that right there is another thing Danny's uncomfortable with. 

They have breakfast. Steve's eggs are terrible as always. Danny eats the whole lot of them. 

~~~

The next few days pass in a similar fashion. Steve makes breakfast and goes in to work. Danny phones Ma or Rachel or Grace and Charlie, or anyone else he can think of who might stave off the boredom. He has Adam keep an eye on things – read: Steve – for him at HQ, because Jerry is clueless and Lou would laugh at him, and he doesn't know either Junior or Tani well enough to make that kind of request. He watches TV. He sleeps. Steve comes back some time in the afternoon and they catch a game together, or a show, or half a movie. Steve makes dinner. They watch the other half of the movie, or a show, or a game. Danny goes to bed. Steve takes the couch.

And they don't talk about how Junior is the only one living at Steve's house right now, or how Steve is neglecting his dog. They don't talk about how Steve will stare at Danny's chest, looking so goddamn lost, whenever he thinks Danny isn't paying attention. They don't talk about how Danny is getting better, can manage fine on his own by now, or how he still hasn't moved the chair back into Grace's room. 

"Do you want more popcorn?"

"Yeah, sure."

Steve watches Danny breathe and Danny watches Steve watch him, and they're being so careful with each other Danny's feeling sick with it. He doesn't know how to stop. Steve's still too pale, still looks haunted in the quiet moments, and Danny wants to snap at him to stop it, just stop, just get back to the bickering already because Danny can't take it anymore. 

Instead, he switches to the home-shopping channel and waits for Steve to break the silence. 

Steve doesn't. Steve looks like he, himself, might be broken. 

Danny's chest aches. He goes to bed. Steve takes the couch. 

~~~

It's not a sound that wakes him. At least, he doesn't think so. It's more of a feeling in the house, something intangible that nevertheless has Danny out of bed because it's _wrong_. 

The hallway is dark, but faint light comes through the living room window. Dawn, or near it, and Danny stumbles to the couch, falls to his knees because Steve is... Steve is breathing wrong, fast and heavy, his eyes squeezed shut and his expression-

"Steve." Danny's reaching for Steve's shoulder before he decides to do it, and this, Steve's shoulder under his hand, radiating heat under the damp t-shirt, this is another thing that's been wrong between them. Apart from Steve helping him, they haven't touched each other in days, not even to bump shoulders, and it's only now that Danny realizes how much he's been missing it. "Steve, babe..."

"I cut into you," Steve rasps, eyes still firmly shut, "I had to go in and punch a hole in your chest. I... The doctor told me not to hit an artery." His hand comes up to clamp around Danny's wrist, holding tight enough that Danny feels his own pulse beat madly against Steve's firm grip. And then Steve laughs, chokes out, "I could have killed you," and it's such an awful sound that Danny stops thinking. 

"You didn't," and he's holding both of Steve's shoulders now, when did that happen, and Steve's pulling him down, arm like a vice around Danny's back, "hey, come on, you didn't, you... You, you got us even, okay? My liver, your finger in my chest, remember?"

And Steve makes that sound again, that terrible, hollow laugh, and Danny presses his nose against Steve's collarbone, snakes his left hand behind Steve's neck because his right is still clasped tight, and refuses to cry. 

"Hey, come on, stop this, huh? Stop it, you didn't... you saved me, all right? Huh? Can you please stop it?" He squeezes the back of Steve's neck, tries to... he doesn't even know. To let Steve know that he's still there, probably. To stop Steve from feeling so goddamn miserable. "I know you have a guilt complex the size of Oahu, but babe, I'm fine. I'm fine, okay? I'm fine."

"I made you bleed, Danny." Steve's voice is still wrecked, and he's hugging Danny so tight it hurts, but that's okay, it's fine. Hurt means alive, means still there, still with this impossible, indispensable man. 

"Still here, babe," is all Danny can say. It's stupid, not enough; it's all he has. "Still with you."

"Yeah," Steve breathes into Danny's hair, so damn close, their chests pressed together, hearts hammering so hard Danny can't tell which beat is his and which is Steve's. "Yeah, Danny."

And Danny's knee is going to hate him tomorrow, so much, but he stays right there, kneeling on the fucking floor until Steve stops shaking. 

~~~

They are better, after that. Steve drapes a casual arm across Danny's shoulders as he takes a call from Lou. Danny keeps his hand in the small of Steve's back as he walks him to the door. 

"Have fun, babe," he says with exaggerated cheer. 

"When you're not around?" Steve says and smirks, the fucker. "I always do."

Danny pretends outrage, like he's supposed to, and Steve _swaggers_ to his truck, like he's supposed to. 

They're back on track. 

And yet there's still... something. Nothing's off, everything's as it should be, but there's this niggling feeling in Danny's chest, right about where Steve cut into him to save his life, that there's something... he doesn't know. Not missing. Not exactly. Not wrong, either. It's just... _something._ Some infinitesimal difference. It's driving him nuts.

But it's about Steve, so Danny's confident he'll figure it out. 

He always has, so far. 

~~~

On Christmas Eve, Steve steals Santa's cookies. Danny gives him shit for it because of course he does, and Steve refuses to see reason because _of course he does._ They stay up too late and Danny gets them more cookies and, when Steve's nagging gets to be too much, hot cocoa because "come on, Danny, it's Christmas."

"It's not Christmas yet, you giant ingrate."

"It's _tradition._ "

"All right, _fine._ God, my _son_ doesn't whine as much as you do."

Steve sticks out his tongue, cookie crumbs and all, and Danny calls him a disgusting animal, no really, cavemen had better manners, hiding his laugh behind mockery and knowing Steve can see it anyway. 

After the second sappy Christmas movie, Steve helps put the presents under the tree. Danny rewards him with the usual pillow and blanket; they both know Steve's not going to drive home tonight. And it's nice, domestic even. Steve's grin finally reaches his eyes again and Danny's a little high on relief, okay, he can admit that. To himself, if not out loud. 

The point is, Danny stays up too late and catches too little sleep, which is probably why the sounds of his son and his partner playing in the living room _at six in the fucking morning_ are less than endearing. He grumbles to himself, does a quick bathroom run, and then goes to see what the two biggest sources of chaos in his life are up to. 

The living room is a sight. Crumpled wrapping paper covers the sofa and a colorful cardboard box is lying on its side next to the tree, where the other presents are still waiting to be opened. Charlie's sitting on the floor, a deep frown of concentration on his face as he forms miniature burger patties with the help of his new play-doh kitchen... thing, top of his wish list because he wanted to "cook just like Danno!" Steve is cross-legged next to him, arranging fake buns on tiny plates, looking every bit as engrossed as Danny's five-year-old. 

Someone, and Danny's money is on Steve here, has created a miniature pretzel from vegetable-green play-doh instead of the more logical brown. The pretzel has been placed into a tiny bucket. For safekeeping. No one is allowed to touch it. 

Charlie explains this earnestly as he clings to Danny's leg after an exuberant, "Good MORNING Danno, look, Santa was here, I got presents, Santa ate all the cookies!"

"No touching, got it," Danny tells him, and his heart melts a little as Charlie beams up at him. 

"I let him open one," Steve says a little sheepishly. 

"I can see that," Danny says, amused, and then-

Then he looks down, Charlie still clinging to his knee, and Steve's looking up at him, smiling fondly, and Danny's stupid heart skips a beat and oh, ohhhhh, okay, _that's_ what's been different. 

Huh. Well. Would you look at that. 

Steve's smile fades as his eyes narrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Danny says far too quickly because his five-year-old son is watching them both now, puzzled. Besides, he gets it now, he can _work_ with this, but later.

Charlie shrieks when Danny tells him that he can open his other presents now. Grace is coming over later, but Danny doesn't have the heart to make Charlie – and by extension, Steve – wait that long. The living room predictably ends up a mess of torn wrapping paper and new toys. Steve relaxes by increments, probably chalking up Danny's earlier light bulb moment to an overabundance of festive spirit or something equally unlikely. Danny graciously accepts his present from Charlie – a tie with a race-car print – and tries not to melt when Steve's eyes go a little damp as Charlie shyly hands him a present of his own. A plastic Sheriff's gold star. Because Steve is "the second-greatest and you should have a star and Mom helped me wrap it, do you like it?"

"Yeah," Steve says, a little choked, and pulls Charlie into a careful hug. 

_Later,_ Danny tells himself. 

But god, later can hardly come soon enough. 

~~~

Between the excitement of New Stuff and running around with Steve and, to a lesser extent, Danny, Charlie tuckers himself out by noon. It's all Danny can do to get some proper food into him, and then it's off for a nap. 

"See you later, Uncle Steve!" Charlie shouts, clutching his new remote-controlled race-car because he can't bear to let it go. 

"Sure thing, buddy!" Steve shouts back. Danny rolls his eyes, but he can't quite suppress his smile. God help him, but he loves them both so fucking much. 

He puts his son to bed and reads all of two paragraphs from their current book before Charlie's out. Danny grins down at him, ruffles his hair – Charlie doesn't so much as twitch – and goes back into the living room. 

Back to Steve. 

Steve's been gathering the torn paper and stuffing it into one of the empty boxes. He puts it away as Danny comes back and joins him on the couch, grinning. 

"He really liked that car, huh?" He nudges Danny's knee with his own. 

Danny nudges back. "Of course he loved it, it's a race-car. Don't let it get to your head."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve tells him, "you're just jealous you didn't think of it."

And that, that is _such_ a lie. Danny had thought of it, had even picked out a model before Steve asked if it was okay if he bought one. Steve knows this, because Danny _told_ him this, and usually he'd be happy to get the argument going, to see which of them would score the point this time, even if they long ago stopped counting.

Not now, though. Because Steve finally realized something Danny's been waiting for him to understand for months now. 

He takes a breath, looks at Steve, and says it. Can't not say it. 

"I love you too, you know." Says it, and holds Steve's gaze, watches it change from bemusement to dawning realization to, finally, pure shock. God, his eyes are enormous. 

Steve opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out. Danny looks at him, for once utterly patient. Steve closes his mouth, licks his lips, and huh, maybe not so patient, because now Steve's lips are damp and they look so soft, and _still_ Steve hasn't said anything so maybe Danny should help him out. 

He slides a hand around the back of Steve's neck, watching Steve for every reaction. Steve's staring at him, eyes still wide and a little wild around the edges, breath coming fast. Danny pulls, gently. Steve moves with him, eyes fluttering shut, holds his breath and-

And then their lips are touching, tender pressure, and Danny closes his own eyes as Steve makes a tiny, shaky sound. He keeps their contact gentle, lets himself sink into the feeling of Steve's mouth against his, soft and careful, so careful; lets his lips rub lightly against Steve's and his fingers brush the thin skin at the back of Steve's neck. 

Steve exhales, melts against him as he brings a hand up to sneak into Danny's hair, rests the other on Danny's thigh. Danny smiles, can't help it, and Steve smiles back, their mouths pressing together a little firmer, a little more insistent. Danny nips at Steve's lower lip. Steve flicks out his tongue in retaliation. Danny opens for him immediately, invites him in, and oh, oh, this is glorious. He could do this forever, just Steve's tongue in his mouth, still careful, exploring, both of them shaking just a little, filling the room with the smallest sounds that seem incredibly loud nonetheless. Lips wet, tongues sliding together so perfectly, and the sheer, amazing pleasure of Steve's taste in his mouth sends a shiver down Danny's spine. Steve groans, pushes closer, getting as drunk on Danny as Danny is on him. 

"Danno?"

Steve jerks, but Danny digs his fingers into Steve's nape, doesn't let him pull away more than an inch or two as he turns his head. 

"Yeah, babe?"

Charlie's looking at them through sleepy eyes, voice slurring as he asks, "Can I have some water?"

"Sure," Danny says. He lets his thumb caress the soft skin below Steve's ear as he brushes one last kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth. Steve leans into it like he can't help himself and Danny's heart goes out to him. His stupid, smart, stubborn goof of a partner. 

Then he gets up to fetch his son some water. 

~~~

Steve's watching him from stupidly bright eyes when Danny returns from putting Charlie to bed for the second time. Danny stops in the doorway, just to look at him, the two of them finally on the same page. 

"So I guess you've known a while," Steve says after a moment. He probably means it to sound like an accusation, but the words come out soft. His lips are still red. 

"I've been waiting for you to catch up," Danny says. "As usual," he adds, but, yeah, he doesn't manage to make it a barb, either. 

They look at each other, idiotically fond.

"Come back here," Steve says. 

Danny goes. 

~~~

The End.


End file.
